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Sunday, May 6, 2012

A friend of mine’s father considers that there is no finer
novel nor more complete intellectual exercise than the wonderful Tinker Tailor
Solider Spy. Although I don’t think I would go quite as far as that, I am very,
very fond of it and very much in love with its hero, George Smiley. It came as
a surprise therefore to recently discover that there is Smiley beyond the famous
trilogy of Tinker, Tailor, The Honourable Schoolboy and Smiley’s People. Two
rather splendid novellas, Call for the Dead and A Murder of Quality kept me
company on a recent trip to Italy.

In Call for the Dead, Smiley finds himself investigating the
death of a civil servant who has only just been subjected (and passed) a
security check by Smiley himself. He has apparently killed himself, but Smiley smells
a rat and chases down the truth from leafy suburbia to dingy London pubs and Thames
side garages. He is nearly killed twice but manages to survive with his wits,
his outstanding spy-craft and the help of Mendal and Guillam (trusty side-kicks
who will be familiar to Tinker, Tailor fans). I read the book in a hill-top
town called Ravello on the Amalfi coast on a day when the whole place was
blanketed in cloud and I think that rather helped me to get in the mood. I
could just about see the page although neither I nor anyone else could see
normal things like buildings and pavements.

The day after (and with a little more sunshine), I dived
straight into A Murder of Quality. This is a strange novella for Smiley to have
become embroiled in as it is really a straight forward murder mystery, with
elements of spy wallpaper. It is not about espionage. Rather it is about the
brutal murder of a non-conformist teacher’s wife in a public school. It deals,
as Le Carre is wont to deal (and indeed, there is no reason why he shouldn’t)
with the overwhelming significance of class in British society – its power to
shape and distort and dehumanise.

These are simple easy books but they show how Le Carre never
lets his standards slip. The writing is fluid and excellent, always saying just
the right amount and never too much. His books are always about something and
he never falls into the trap of thinking that because he has a genre that means
that there is no need for substance or thought.

Smiley is a character who has repaid strenuous effort and
thought on his creator’s part. He is a complex and flawed wonder. One can’t
help but slightly take the impression that Smiley is an idealised version of Le
Carre himself. He is divided between the intellectually curious academic and
the sharp-eyed, sharp-witted memoriser of dangers, the wounded cuckold with
much to prove and the Smiley who actually wants to win and to be the best. His
social position is deliberately ambiguous, as Le Carre puts it in Call for the
Dead “Smiley, without school, parents, regiment or trade, without wealth or
poverty, travelled without labels in the guard’s van of the social express”. His
cleverness and reserved nature and loyalty to those who deserve it make him
lovable, but equally he is a most flawed hero. Both Call for the Dead and A
Murder of Quality testify to this. I will not say how as I don’t want to spoil
the books for readers of this blog – but he emerges at the end of both of them
a little more shadowy than before.

Readers of this blog may recall that I have had a foray down
the path of espionage before, and very much enjoyed it, here.

As usual there are other excellent opinions around. In particular
from Double O Section and From Smiler with Love. I have included a picture of
Le Carre and of Ravello, but for the purposes of this blog, you will have to
imagine it dripping in cloud.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

I realise that I must be possessed of the procrastination
gene. The reason for this is that during the international Charles Dickens is 200-fest
which took place in February, I was actually reading (courtesy of a kind gift
bearer) Claire Tomalin’s door stop biography Charles Dickens – a life. Yes,
reader, I was so near to actually blogging on a topical subject that others
were thinking of *at the same time*. However, the glare of the popular was all
too much, and somehow it is now, in late March that I am finally cogitating
over what I really thought of it.

When it comes to Charles Dickens, it is fair to say that I
have history. That history is that I love his work, for all of its
sentimentality, I absolutely love it. Also, I have always got the impression
that, for all of the laudable charity work and modernity of the man, he was in
many respects cruel and difficult. Tomalin’s book has not disabused me of
either of these views, and so it has not revolutionised what I think about
Dickens. As usual she is a cracking biographer, who sets the scene before her
reader and does not make too many judgements.

There were probably 2 major revelations, 1 of which puts me
to shame and the other of which is just a point of interest, for your
delectation.

First, Tomalin really brings out and hammers home how
astonishingly prolific Dickens was. Not for him, putting off a measly blog
entry for 2 months. He could write 2 classics at once and it is not as though
there were major sacrifices of quality or depth. No, he was just a remarkably
fast and industrious worker. I am shamed, but also inspired.

Secondly, so much ink has been spilt on Dickens’
relationship with women, whether they be wives or daughters or mistresses or
whores. What Tomalin does, which for me was new, was to look at his
relationships with men.One gets the
impression that although he liked a good time, and his male friends had to be
able to drink and carouse with the best of them – he did not like to be
outshone. I found myself thinking that this attitude was somehow pre-figured by
his troubled relationship with his charming, hopeless, feckless father. Dickens’
best friend, John Forster, was in some respects the most significant personal
relationship of his life. It was certainly the longest lived and the least
chequered. It suggests a trust and candour on Dickens’ part that I did not find
so much evidence of in his other relationships.

Tomalin’s account of the breakdown of Dickens’ marriage is
engaging. I have used the word “breakdown” but that is somehow wrong. The
reality, for those who have not read about it, is that Dickens was married
young to an apparently sweet although not enormously interesting young woman.
After 22 years of married life, and upteen children, Dickens simply left her
and lived in barely concealed sin with a young actress called Nellie Ternan.
Claire Tomalin’s The Invisible Woman: the story of Nellie Ternan and Charles
Dickens, next stop in the biography train, methinks.

About Me

Greetings and welcome to my blog! I am a voracious reader and adventurous traveller with a passion for the book-less-read and the intriguing image. This blog is a record of my life with books and pictures.